


Gorgons

by Heather



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-21
Updated: 2004-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:32:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heather/pseuds/Heather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darla. Dru. Faith. Insanity. Mythology.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gorgons

Medusa's hair was, at one time, very stylish. Serpents writhing and snapping around a face full and soft with terrible beauty--gorgeous qualities, all adding to her overall desirability, luring men close enough to be frozen and turned to stone. Faith is learning to relate.

Milk-white, silk-soft, cool and golden thing. Blue eyes and full lips and all the qualities that draw one like moth to flame in a bar after a few beers.

But she's not in a bar, is she? She can't tell. Loud noises, dark rooms, broken glass and razor-blade smiles of beautiful women with predatory gazes. Seems consistent with the bar theory.

They're near her all the time, punishing her with brutal hands, pointed teeth, sharp nails and sharper knives. On her and in her and across every inch of her skin. Tugging at her hair and biting at her throat.

The dark-haired one sings soft, tuneless hymns and slithers over her like a snake, petting and cooing. The blond speaks with cool, delicate tones and laughs all the time, like the world is a private joke and Faith herself the punch line. Oftentimes, they approach and caress her gently, like a lover, and Faith has been trapped like this for too long to not subscribe to the lie.

But then their lips part and reveal shiny white teeth as they laugh, and she remembers they're just she-monsters after all. Medusa with a brand new perm, eager to turn her into stone.

****

Darkness and screams, the taste of blood with cognac and the oh-so-familiar delight of tumbling into bed nestled between two dark-haired beauties, each one equally broken and utterly. Completely. _Hers._ Beautiful pictures previously reserved for the most lovely of dreams.

  
The Slayer bends so prettily, corded muscle beneath satin-smooth skin, power in chains, eyes glittering with rhapsodic suffering.

Darla has had a Slayer only once before: the Master chained one, alive and wriggling, over a spit and let the entire Order take turns feasting, sipping blood from her breasts and throat and from the delta between her legs. That Slayer had strained and cried, pulled against her bonds, and begged for mercy. Her Slayer writhes and contorts, moaning and whimpering, parting her lips and her legs to let them break her.

Darla isn't sure if it was Angel who sent the little girl after her, or if Lilah and Lindsey are to blame, but either way, she owes someone a thank-you for the gift.

The Slayer's name is Faith, something Darla finds incredibly ironic. Even in the deepest rapture of orgasm, Faith never babbles to God. Darla can't find she blames her much; if Faith had any reason to believe in Him before, she certainly does not now.

_((God never did anything for me))_

Whispers of the past, so close to the surface these days. Always flying at her, buzzing around her head like the horrors Dru sees. Darla likes to feel that she is the sane one of her little family, but madness is in her blood, responsible for her heavy thoughts, erratic moods and the depths of her cruelty. If not the sane one, the saner one, then. She takes what she can get.

Like her Slayer.

They practically gift-wrapped the girl for her, sending her to fight the two naughtiest vampires presently in Los Angeles with little more than a pair of stakes, a sharp tongue and vague, if dire, warnings that she did not take to heart. In their one battle, Faith's stake went into the wrong side of Darla's chest, and that was the first thing she paid for when she began her existence in chains.

Darla smiles like an almost indecently satisfied cat and closes her eyes lazily as she remembers trailing that same stake between the Slayer's breasts, over her belly and then driving it, hard and brutal, between her legs. Blood had flowed from her like a river as Darla slid it slowly, in and out. Dru had captured some on her hands and drawn ancient runes in delicate rings around Faith's nipples, only to lick each one off, whispering of ancient secrets and magick.

Her toes curl and her back arches, lips parting in a smile. She has had only one Slayer before, who lasted only hours. She hopes to keep Faith much longer.

****

An impure Snow White and a wakeful Sleeping Beauty. Rose Red bathing in blood. Ladies turning into spiders, wicked girls opening nasty boxes and Red Riding Hood gone bad. Drusilla likes nothing better than fairy stories.

Oh, she remembers them all, the dark and lovely children's tales, the striking operas and epics of Gods and men. She would like to tell them all to Darla someday, but sometimes they break or go wrong and she can't remember how to put them right again. She tells them to Faith instead, Faith with her mind going as splintered as Drusilla's own, Faith the tattered rag doll in leather collar and iron chains. Faith of broken heart and shattered hopes.

Each night Faith is devoured alternately by Darla, Drusilla and herself, like a snake eating its tail. She fights, she screams, she cries, she begs, she whimpers and she trembles with orgasm. What does she cling to, Dru wonders. She is their creature; not Slayer, not naughty girl. She has nothing to lose but her chains--the real ones, not the pretty shiny metal to keep her from falling too far. The chains of the mind that separate pleasure from pain and make it too hard to appreciate their love.

For this, she is punished, but also promised: someday, it won't hurt anymore. This is why Drusilla tells her stories, to fill the gaps, to see the beauty. To understand she is no more what she was, she is born all new again each night as she slurps down her own dreadful tail.

They bathed her tonight in a big golden tub filled with water and flowers, her chain wrapped 'round a clawed metal foot and Dru's crimson lacquered talons going tap, tap, tap on her belly while Darla's hands clutched greedily at her breasts. She had put sharp little clamps, like small angry teeth, on each one's peak.

"Once upon a time," Dru dreamily croons, not sure if it's in her memory or happening now. So hard to tell sometimes; she no longer tries to distinguish, and carries on instead with what she was going to say. "There was a man in the stars, on the mountain." A quick flick of her tongue along the juncture of Faith's leg and hip brings her to attention. "People didn't have fire then, they were cold and the stars laughed and danced, full and warm, warmer than the little people."

She slowly scrapes her nails over the taut, smooth places on Faith's belly. "And then the man came and his heart wept bitter ashes for them." Her hand clenches, suddenly angry. "So he stole the fire. Wicked boy, he stole it away and gave it to the cold people." A tiny slap against Faith's thigh. She lets out a small moan. Dru smiles. "Do you know what happened to that man on the mountain, lovely?" Her hands slide down Faith's thighs and slowly between them, into the warm, soft flesh nestled beneath the thatch of tiny ebony curls. At the same time, Darla fiddles with the screws in the baby clamps, making them tighter. It is hard to tell which one Faith moans for.

"He was laid down in a dark place in chains and given birds for company." She snakes a finger out, trailing it slowly over Faith's opening, reveling in the heaves and shudders. Darla clenches the clamps down harder and nips at her throat and ears, butterfly-kisses her jaw.

"The birds came every day, forever and ever, peck, peck, pecking at him, taking him in bits and pieces, eating away at his liver." She slides one finger in. Hard. Darla nibbles harder and takes the clamps in her own hands to squeeze them tighter. Faith's body begins to shake.

"Pretty birds, they were." Dru murmurs fondly, her hand undulating within Faith's sex as the girl gasps and chokes, her wildly flexing toes causing ripples in the water. "Big and black. Beaks sharp like knives. Eyes clear as the ocean." Darla's mouth moves to cover Faith's, her tongue forcing its way in, her fingers frantically squeezing the bits of silver so hard that a bead of blood trickles from each nipple to form murky sanguine clouds in the water. Faith's leg slides out of the tub and, dripping, into the air, her toes grasping and curling.

Dru's hand works faster now as her words crescendo. "The birds circled and came to him, every day, devoted and unforgetting, to eat his ever-growing liver. Came to him and bit at him every day, but they came and no other did. No one else."

Darla's nails scrape at Faith's wet, pendulous breasts as her tongue gropes at the Slayer's own. She slides a hand down her own abdomen and thrusts it into her own lacy underpants, cramming her fingers inside her own aching sex.

Drusilla's hand slides deeper and begins to jerkily oscillate, her voice becoming almost tearful. "He didn't see how beautiful the birds were, how soft and clean their feathers, how strong their wings were, or how their beaks curved like shadows, or how bright their eyes shone. He only cared for his own foul liver that they pecked out."

Faith's body was alive with bucking and kicking and kissing and sucking and crying and pounding and panting. Darla's kisses deepened and one hand shot out to tear the clamp from Faith's breast and grasp the nipple for dear life, twisting it hard as she drives her fingers home.

"Do you see, Slayer?" Dru demands, pushing her hand in deep. "Do you see the birds?"

Faith arches, shaking and screeching, her heart beating wildly in her chest as she keens like an animal. Darla shudders and trembles and lets out her own gasping moans, bucking against her own hand as tears of pleasure squeeze from her eyes. Each lets out her own ululation of joy, riding the waves together, white fairy-lights blooming like roses behind their closed eyes.

Darla slowly sags bonelessly to the floor, puling quietly as her arms fall limp at her sides.

Faith goes slack and sinks into the rose-colored bathwater, head hanging docilely on her shoulder, frozen stone-still except for the beat of her heart and the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, ragged but satisfied.

Drusilla smiles and pulls away. She likes it when her fairy stories have happy endings.

\--END--  



End file.
